James Patterson - Tick Tock

The military was the only way out of Manette Holler for him, and he took it at seventeen. The 82nd Airborne Rangers had been like a dream come true-three squares and a place to sleep. They'd taught him to kill and how to survive in the wilderness. He was a quick study.

He'd still be serving his country in the Special Forces if they hadn't royally fucked him over. But once out, he went underground. Eastern seaboard, Key West to Maine. Wandering, living on the streets or the Appalachian Trail, riding the freights.

He would have done that for the rest of his life had he not met Lawrence. Not only had Lawrence discovered that he had dyslexia but he'd actually taught him how to beat it. At the age of thirty, Carl had been introduced to reading. Lawrence had been his benefactor and his tutor, like Aristotle was to Alexander the Great.

He thought about all the books and meals and discussions he had enjoyed. How wonderful to read quietly by his window as the wind howled through the trees of Central Park. The drives up to Connecticut in the fall on Route 7, the Mercedes's engine purring. He could have done that for the rest of his life. Happy, alone, living the good life, the clean, dry life of the mind.

But then Lawrence was diagnosed, and they learned his enormous heart was failing. He'd thought that all the good things had come to an end. That's when Lawrence came to him with a not-so-modest proposal. If Carl eliminated all of Lawrence's enemies, his education and aesthetic discoveries would continue for the rest of his life, courtesy of Lawrence. Once the last of the people on Lawrence's list was eliminated, Carl would receive the number to an account in Geneva.

After all, he'd killed for his country for no more than his mother had been paid at the Burger King. Killing for his friend with a $20 million inheritance was a no-brainer.

Apt ate a couple more peanuts, his eyes moving left to right then right to left, the scan of a hawk perched on a utility pole. He stirred his drink and continued to people-watch at the tables. A nipped-and-tucked divorcee on the prowl. A well-groomed, swarthy little Prada-wearing fuck with three gorgeous Asian women. A black male model in a white sport coat who kept trying to catch his attention.

Then he spotted her, a busty pale blonde in her late twenties sitting at the other end of the bar. There was a sexy, slutty, Old World Hollywood glamour about her, Marilyn Monroe.

Carl knew her name wasn't Norma Jean Baker but rather Wendy Shackleton. She'd made Berger's list for showing up from an escort service for Lawrence one night and taking one look at him and turning on her heels. The whore had totally rejected his good buddy before he'd even had a chance to open his mouth. She'd hurt Lawrence's feelings very badly. Bad move.

Carl made eye contact as he carried his drink over.

"Good-bye, Norma Jean. Though I never knew you at all," he sang, taking her hand as he sat down beside her.

She laughed demurely.

"I'm sorry," he said, letting her go after a second. "How forward of me. My computer company just went public, and you're just about the most glamorous-looking woman I've ever seen. You could be Marilyn herself."

"You're very kind," she said, checking him out with approval. "Are you staying at the hotel?"

"Yes, I am," Apt said. "I actually rang the opening bell down at the stock exchange this morning. It's been one of the most exciting days of my life, and I need someone to share it with. Please, please, please, let me buy you a drink."

"Sure, sure, sure," she said, giggling. "What a gentleman."

"Are you looking for some company tonight?" she said in his ear when her $20 dirty martini arrived.

"Oh," he said, feigning surprise. "Oh, wow. You're um…"

"Working. Yes," she said, nodding, smiling. "Does that bother you?"

"Bother me? I'm bothered, all right. Hot and bothered in the best way possible. How does it work?"

"You're not a cop, are you?"

Carl laughed and took a sip of his Whiskey Smash.

"Hardly," he said.

"I didn't think so. How does it work? Let's see. You give me a thousand dollars, and I give you a lovely night you won't forget."

"Heck, let's get to it, then," Carl said, taking her hand again.

She banged his bad knee as she was pulling out her bar stool.

"I'm so sorry," she said.

"No problem," he said, his eyes tearing with the pain. She was going to pay for that, Carl thought.

His limp became more pronounced as they left the bar and headed for the opulent lobby's elevator.

"Are you sure you're okay?"

"Old war injury," Carl said. "Don't worry. Everything else works fine."

"Glad to hear it. What should I call you?"

"My employees call me Mr. Rifkin," Apt said. "But you can call me Joel."

Monday morning, I sat at my desk at One Police Plaza still as a Zen master, breathing slowly, eyes closed, mentally prepping myself for my upcoming reaming at the task force meeting.

After reading the morning papers, I needed the meditation. Berger's lawyer, some fool named Allen Duques, was crying false arrest and police negligence and was insisting on a thorough investigation into his client's death. Only the Post piece happened to remind everyone that his client was a child- and cop-killing wacko.

I was thinking about getting into the lotus position to counteract all the bad karma when there was a knock on my cubicle wall. I reluctantly opened my eyes. Then I smiled. It was Emily Parker.

"Mike, are you… okay?" she said.

"Fine," I said.

"Good, because my friend's cousin is downstairs waiting for us."

"Oh, right. The spook," I said, standing.

"Shh," Emily said. "The walls have ears."

Outside on the street half a block east, a massive silver Lincoln Navigator sat idling. A bony, attractive brown-haired woman sat behind the wheel. Even more unexpected was the six-month-old in the car seat behind her.

"Mike, Karen. Karen, Mike," Emily said as we climbed in.

Emily grabbed shotgun while I was relegated to the backseat next to the baby on board. I flicked some cheerios off the leather before I sat.

"Please tell Mike what you were telling me, Karen. You worked with Carl Apt in Intelligence, right?"

"I did," the thin woman said, checking her mirror.

"How about the baby?" I said, smiling at the cute little girl.

"She's a civilian," Karen assured me with a smile. "I worked for the Company until a year ago. Now I'm a Larchmont soccer-mom-in-training. Who knows what tomorrow will bring? Love makes you do some damn strange things."

"I know what that's like," I said.

Emily shot me a look from the front seat.

"I thought it was Carl when I saw the security shot in the Post," Karen began, "but I didn't come forward because of national secrecy, yada, yada, yada. But after the recent death of that woman, I couldn't stay silent anymore. What I'm about to tell you is classified information. You didn't hear this from me. Agreed? In 2002 I worked in Yemen with the CIA SAD."

"Is that the stay-at-home-dad department?" I said.

"Special Activities Division," she said as we hooked a quick left down an alley-wide Chinatown street. "We were responsible for covert military raids on Al Qaeda targets. Carl was on one of our strike teams. He was the bomb tech. All the other Delta guys deferred to him for all things explosive. He actually won the Intelligence Star commendation in our operation when he used a predator drone to knock out a pickup truck loaded with bad guys who were coming in on our position."

"You're kidding me," I said.

"I made some phone calls," Karen said. "Carl, while great at war, wasn't too hot on the domestic front. He was working at Fort Bragg as a Delta Force trainer up until 2003, when he got into a beef with his new supervisor. He was about to be transferred out of the group, when the CO found some C-four wired to his car battery. When they came to ask Apt about it, he was gone. He'd bugged out."